


let's just get gone

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: The Fugitive (1993), U.S. Marshals (1998)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 11:19:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15266367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: What if it was only a lie, until the whole mess got sorted out.





	let's just get gone

**Author's Note:**

> It's been at least 15 years since the first time I watched this movie and I'm still mad that Newman was the one to get shot. (I also wrote this pairing once before, but it's been lost to the wilds of disappeared domains.)

A week after the hearing, Sam's at his desk when Walsh opens her office door and calls, "Sam, you still here?"

"Always," he answers. It's only ten past six, which isn't late for him, but everyone else decided to heed the bell and slink out at 5:30. Sam hadn't missed the concerned look Cosmo slanted in his direction, but he'd ignored it, and Cosmo had wisely kept whatever comment he wanted to make to himself. 

Walsh is standing up behind her desk, one hand on a piece of paper. She slides it across the polished surface when he comes in. It's a map, with an address printed along the bottom. Something pings in Sam's mind. "That's one of our safehouses."

"Yes."

"Who…" The click of his teeth as he shuts his mouth is almost painful. He looks at Walsh; she meets his gaze straight on, her face serious. Sam can hear the blood rushing in his ears before he makes himself say, as calmly as possible, "You couldn't tell me before now."

"Not until we knew for sure he would make it, and that this mess with Royce was mopped clean. He won't have to stay there much longer, I hope."

A great wave of exhaustion hits him so suddenly and so hard that he has to brace himself with a hand flat on the desk. He looks down at the map. Then he nods at Walsh, takes the piece of paper, and leaves.

Going west out of the city seems to take forever. He goes through a drive-thru for coffee and a sandwich, aware that he should probably stop trying to live on caffeine alone, and traffic moves at exactly the right speed that he can concentrate on taking careful bites instead of concentrating on _Noah's not dead_. 

It works somewhat. He only leans on the horn three times between leaving the office and merging from 90 onto 88. After an hour, the mess of cars gives way to the approaching farm country, and Sam feels the knot of tension that he's carried in the middle of his chest for the last few weeks start to loosen somewhat. 

There's a maroon sedan in the long driveway of the safehouse. The woman who answers his knock is dressed in scrubs; Sam assumes Walsh called ahead, or else no one would have come to the door. He shows her his badge and ID. She points down the hallway, says, "He's recovering well considering the extent of his injuries. He does need more time for his body to heal. You can go in, but make sure he stays comfortable."

"Yes, ma'am."

Noah looks like shit, but unlike the last time Sam saw him, he's _alive_. Watching whatever is on the small television, wearing sweats, propped up against a couple pillows in the bed. He doesn't look over right away, probably assuming the footsteps were the nurse. Sam waits.

"Oh," Noah breathes when he looks up, his jaw dropping slightly, and then he moves over on the bed. 

Uncaring, Sam drops his jacket on the floor, then sits down. Then he kicks his shoes off and lies down. He feels Noah's hand on his hair, and then Noah says, "I did wonder when you were going to show up."

Sam mutters unfavorable things about Walsh under his breath. Noah chuckles slightly, says, "They wouldn't let me have a phone."

Sam shakes his head; he gets it. There's protocol. 

"You were dead last time I saw you," he says, when he can actually make himself say it.

"One went through my shoulder. Two in the gut. I think I was dead, for a few minutes, actually." Noah makes a considering sound. "Took a while to get my lung fixed, which is why I'm still stuck here watching baseball."

Sam looks at the screen. Mariners at Royals. "Being stuck here is the only reason you're allowed to watch this," he grumbles, and Noah huffs, because Sam has yet to break him of the habit of caring about the Royals. "You coming back to work?"

There's a pause before Noah answers, long enough for Sam to think about just how tight the skin around his eyes has felt for the last few weeks. "At a desk, at least for a while."

The knot lessens further. Sam closes his eyes for a moment, feels Noah press their arms together, from their elbows down to the backs of their hands. Sam tries not to think about the IVs that must have marred Noah's skin for weeks, and instead rotates his wrist so that his fist rests partially against Noah's cupped fingers. He listens to the sounds of baseball for a while.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Noah says after a few minutes have passed. "I know we never actually talked about -"

"Shh," Sam interrupts. 

"But I want to talk about it."

Sam gives that one a second. "All right."

"I asked Walsh to tell you," Noah murmurs. His voice is rough. "Before they brought me here. Begged, practically. 'Not yet', she said. But she was sorry about it, Sam, and Royce - I tried to -"

Sam squeezes his wrist. "I got him in the end."

Noah makes a low sound that Sam can feel vibrate through him. "You could have got him sooner."

Sam watches the Mariner who's up to bat get two strikes before hitting a pop-up that's easily caught by the shortstop for the Royals, while thinking about what he wants to say, for long enough that it feels almost too late to say it when he does speak. 

"Fugitives run until they're caught," he says. "It takes exactly as long as it takes. And when they let me spring you from this joint, we're taking a vacation. Somewhere warm. Somewhere _hot_. In a good way, none of this sticky Chicago summer shit. Possibly with a boat."

"One of those places where they jam a wedge of lime in your beer?"

"Yes." Sam could live without the lime, or the beer. Or really the vacation, as long as Noah's no longer dead, but Walsh won't complain about him taking some time off, and Cosmo might actually throw a party.

Noah turns toward him, breath hitching oddly. Sam's not usually one to measure the weight of someone's gaze, but the look on Noah's face nearly stutters his own breath. Noah says, "Takes as long as it takes, huh."

"Uh-huh."

There's a wave of crowd noise through the television's tinny speakers; someone must have homered. Sam doesn't care, because he hates both these teams, and because he's busy being careful not to lean too hard on Noah's repaired ribs and still-breathing lungs, relearning the feel of Noah's mouth pressed to his.


End file.
